A WIDOW — she had only one!
A puny and decrepit son;
— But, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all —
— The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite! ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
— Though friends were fewer:
And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
— Was music to her.

I saw her then, — and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
— Has sorrowed much:
She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and, carefully laid by,
— A little crutch.